


The Ruin Within

by sithmarauder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Flirting, Hand Jobs, Historical References, Intimacy, Intra Canon, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, The Forbidden Soft, author’s complete inability to write anything that isn’t absolutely coloured by imminent tragedy, despite that tag this is relatively happy, discussions of the Ross Antarctic Expedition Ball, listen they COULD have snuck into Ned’s cabin for a passionate tumble before Carnivàle, petition for Thomas Jopson to get some rest Your Honour, vague D/s undertones, you don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: “Oh, Lieutenant, I’m not that kind of girl.”As preparations for Fitzjames'Carnivàleget underway, Edward Little offers to teach Thomas the quadrille.  Thomas just hopes he can survive the lieutenant's hands on him with his control intact and his secrets in check.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 12
Kudos: 73
Collections: The Joplittle Fall Fic Exchange 2020





	The Ruin Within

**Author's Note:**

  * For [for_autumn_i_am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/gifts).



> Me, writing fic for one of my favourite authors, face frozen in the Archaic Smile as I juggle the mess that has become my life. At this point whenever I post a fic I want you all to imagine a woman just stumbling through the door in a whirl of parchment with even more papers and books tucked under her arm and a half-open briefcase filled with highly caffeinated tea clutched precariously in her hand.
> 
> I actually started writing the "train ride that takes forever meet-cute" prompt first, but it was starting to get long and 2L is stressful and eats all my time so I panicked and switched to this prompt, which I adored in equal measure. Then I ended up with nearly 10k _anyway_ , so you'll likely be getting two fics. I'm sorry.
> 
> Special thanks go to **priestly** for his endless patience in letting me yammer on about god-knows-what while I cobbled everything together. Extra special thanks to my university's online database subscriptions and library for providing me access to the resources I use to indulge all of this. Finally, extra, extra special thanks to [gigi-sinclair](https://gigi-sinclair.tumblr.com/), who organised this whole event 🖤

Raw. That was how Thomas felt as he slipped further into the bowels of the ship, numb to the sounds around him as men in varying states of winter dress conversed in the low light of the mess. Raw, wretched, _vulnerable_ , like he had been flayed to the bone and somehow only realized at the last possible moment that he had no skin left with which to conceal himself.

It did not show on his face. He made sure it didn’t. He had given away enough for one day, let the facade slip for a moment too long, and so his steps did not falter because he willed it so, and when he grasped the Goldner's tin his hands did not shake, because to allow them would be another inexcusable lapse. Another moment of weakness.

One that would not, Thomas told himself firmly as he opened the can, happen again.

In his mind, the captain’s weary face stared back at him, and he recalled with dread the exhaustion in Crozier’s voice as he’d asked how Thomas’ mother had fared through her ordeal; recalled, too, the way he himself had stopped, stalled, the truth a heavy burden that he could not bear to impart to a man who had no need of it.

Some days, MacDonald’s arrival made him want to hiss and spit, exhaustion bringing forth claws and a cold, cutting anger that Thomas had long ago learned to keep under wraps. Today he acknowledged that MacDonald’s presence had probably saved them both. His skin still itched at the thought of leaving the captain alone for too long, but if he could not trust a surgeon, then he could trust no one in this.

 _You’re no help dead on your feet, Thomas_ , MacDonald had observed after that first week. Thomas hadn’t responded then, but the surgeon’s eyes had been kind as he’d gently patted Thomas’ shoulder and stepped into the cabin, leaving Thomas to run interference with Mr. Blanky once more. He had not told MacDonald that it hardly mattered if he, Thomas, were dead on his feet. Known to them both was the reality that it only mattered that their captain recovered, and known to Thomas alone was the promise that he would not watch the light leave Crozier’s eyes nor listen to the sound of his lungs give one last, horrible _rattle_ as the addiction claimed a final victory.

Across the expanse of the room, William Gibson polished silverware. Their eyes met across the way, a brief connection that was broken when Gibson averted his gaze, the flash of something dark that flickered across his his face quickly concealed by the low light of the candles and the arrival of Mr. Hickey. Thomas tuned them out where he might have once paid closer attention, pulling at the tattered remnants of his fine control as he dug into the meagre rations. The food went down heavy, the bitter acidity of the first bite a welcome distraction, and he kept eating until every bite tasted like the lie he had not quite told the captain.

He heard the footsteps before he saw the man behind them. Deliberate, uniform, and just this side of heavy: the stride of an officer, one Thomas knew well. He lifted his head just as a familiar voice—one of the only ones still welcome to him, one he feared he had never been able to fully tune out, despite his best efforts—rang out above the heads of those who had congregated below.

“Gather ‘round, everyone. Men, up! Lieutenant Le Vesconte has a message from Captain Fitzjames that’s going to put a beam in all your steps.”

 _How well he wears it_ , Thomas thought, food temporarily forgotten as _Terror’s_ acting captain cut a swath through the men. Behind him, Lieutenant Le Vesconte wore the remnants of the biting Arctic wind and an easy smile on his face. There was a genuine warmth in Le Vesconte’s voice as he announced Fitzjames’ _Carnivàle_ , his posture relaxed and open and welcoming, the natural charm he possessed drawing the attention of all those who dwelled in the cramped space. Any other day Thomas might have watched him too, might have joined in the men’s celebrations and given into his soul’s bitter longing for one moment of levity, but instead his eyes were drawn to one man and one man alone: the captain’s first, who had slipped away from the scrutiny of the crew to stand with a queer stillness in front of Thomas.

There was a familiar tug in his breast. With the men occupied by their celebrations, Thomas took the opportunity to simply watch Little, whose face he could picture in fine, exquisite detail, though turned away from him he could not see it.

 _Oh, Tom, you know better than this_. He let himself look nonetheless, just for a moment, but men like Thomas were used to subsisting on such moments. It was harmless as long as he kept it under wraps, as long as Little never _knew_ , and Thomas? Thomas had spent his life being discreet.

The bell rang. Little turned, fixing those dark eyes unerringly on Thomas. His face was hard to read, impassive it always was ( _no, not always_ , something in Thomas whispered as he looked back, a moment of daring), but past the exhaustion that seemed to pull at the corners of Little’s mouth lurked something that nearly gave Thomas pause, something resting just below the surface.

Thomas spooned himself one last bite of tasteless meat before placing the half-filled tin aside. The captain called, and Thomas would answer, but as he slipped past Little’s still body and Hickey’s _all-right-jack_ smile, the weight of Little’s regard remained, accompanying him all the way back to purgatory.

* * *

It was a firm knock at the door to Crozier’s cabin that woke Thomas from his unwitting slumber, his face numb where it had been pressed into the wood for God only knew how long. _MacDonald_? he wondered, quickly blinking away the remnants of sleep, unsurprised at the darkness that met his eyes when he sat back. The Ross expedition to the Antarctic had prepared him for days of endless light and endless night both, but preparation did not always guarantee ease.

“A moment,” Thomas murmured, aware that whoever was on the other side would not hear it. The knock did not sound again either way, and Thomas lit a candle in the silence before carefully making his way over to the door—closed and latched, as it always was, for the good of them all.

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t to find _Terror’s_ acting captain on the other side..

“Lieutenant,” Thomas said, straightening reflexively, the hand not holding the candle reaching up to brush an errant lock of hair from his face. Relief was a sharp blade that twisted deep into his lungs: relief that it was not someone he would have to lie to, relief that he would not have to put off Mr. Blanky yet again, and below that, the base, carnal, _simple_ relief that it was Little.

Thomas was a realistic man. A professional. He knew his place, as he knew all of the trappings and restraints that came with it, and he knew, too, that officers of Little’s standing did not look twice at captain’s stewards, even if captain’s stewards looked twice at them.

And _oh_ , how Thomas looked.

Face partially illuminated by the flickering flame of the candle between them, Little was like a character straight out of a penny dreadful. Dark and stoic, serious and dutiful, and with eyes that caught far more than the man let on, Edward Little was all that Thomas wanted and all that he would never have. He craved anyway, a visceral hunger that could be ignored for a time but that he could never escape; a primal urge that wanted to scream out at Little to take all that he was until there was naught for Thomas to do but accept the need into himself and work to prevent his turbulent thoughts from bypassing his armour and manifesting where someone else could see. It was foolish. It was _dangerous_. It was the sort of desire that had seen men less careful than he disciplined or _worse_ , and yet try as he might there was no getting rid of it. It simply was.

Thomas would live with it. _Had_ been living with it, and adequately so, until the creature’s most recent attack had left Blanky without a leg and _Terror_ with a captain who had realized he could not go on as he had been. There was shame that burned in Thomas at that, at the knowledge that he had enabled Crozier’s addictions when he _knew_ what they could do, but there was nothing for that now. It had happened, and Thomas was dealing with it, and if _dealing with it_ meant he was forced to work closer than ever with the man who had stepped up to take Crozier’s place, well.

“Did I wake you?” Little asked. The flame of the candle flickered with the force of his words, though they were spoken in a low tone. Thomas shook his head, wordlessly standing aside to allow Little entrance—one of the few people whom Thomas permitted access to the room.

Blanky had groused about that the last time he stopped by. Thomas had stood, resolute, until the man had given up yet again.

“No,” Thomas answered. Little’s eyes narrowed; it was clear he saw right through the lie. Thomas’ only response was a wan smile.

“The captain?” Little murmured.

“He sleeps,” Thomas replied, inclining his head. Little looked grim for a moment. Then he said, bluntly:

“So should you.”

“Later.”

Little did not push, though the slightest furrow of his brow and the way his eyes flicked up and down gave away his thoughts. Another thing Thomas should not find endearing, alongside Little’s obvious inexperience in the Arctic—something not unique to Little, but where the inexperience of men like Fitzjames, the other officers, and even Franklin himself to a point had seen Thomas’ gnashing his teeth, Little’s floundering and the tendrils of what Thomas knew damn was lust had awoken the instinctive need to _help_ the man. Indeed, against his better judgement Thomas had taken to imparting small hints here and there—encouragements and warnings to help reduce the bite of Crozier’s abject disappointment.

To his delight, Little had noticed, and that, too, had been a thrill: to have those dark eyes settle on him over Crozier’s head, to have his silent warnings noticed and _heeded,_ to have Little look to him, however briefly, for direction when rank dictated Little need not acknowledge his presence at all.

Exhausted and beaten down, it remained a perennial thrill, and Thomas fought increasingly hard to maintain his veneer of professionalism—any veneer at all, really, he thought with a bitten-back sigh—as Little gazed at him in the gloom.

He kept his smile polite. The dark would forgive the strain of it. His heart gave a familiar flutter in his chest when Little’s eyes flickered up and down his person, but he ignored it, as he always did, packing the ill-timed infatuation away to deal with at another time.

“If you’re inquiring about the captain,” Thomas murmured, “then—“

“I’m not,” Little interrupted. “That is, that is not why I am here. I trust you would inform me if there was anything I needed to know.” Thomas inclined his head, waiting. It was a fallacy among the crew, a baseless little rumour that Lieutenant Little was a man of few words. He wasn’t, not really. He simply chose when he wanted to speak, and the manner of his delivery made much of his speech sound short, even when the words he chose were both lengthy and many. Thomas had learned to wait for those words, and he waited now. Little’s eyes darted past him for a moment, peering into the darkness beyond, but they returned to Thomas swiftly enough. No matter her end, his mother had not raised a fool, and so Thomas turned away to latch the door as Little made his way further into the room. A small part of him quivered at the idea of allowing even Little into this sanctuary, but he quelled its mewling. Little had his own part to play in all of this, his own burden to shoulder, and Thomas, remembering the way Little had quickly put aside the pistol Crozier had handed to him, did not think for one moment that the weight on the lieutenant’s shoulders was any lighter than the one on his own.

“Sir,” Thomas said, keeping his voice soft and low. Clad in his greatcoat, his body near-motionless, his head turned to the side, Little, with his straight nose and strong jaw, was striking, and was made all the more so by the fact that the man seemed to be completely unaware of his own appeal.

Thomas placed the candle on the table and swiftly lit a second. It prompted action, and Thomas was ready with what he hoped was a gently inquiring expression, with what he hoped was _any_ expression that adequately concealed the exhaustion that seemed determined to fell him at every opportunity, when Little turned to face him again.

“You didn’t get to finish,” Little said simply, and nothing in the world could have prepared Thomas Jopson for the sight of Edward Little standing placidly in front of him with some wrapped pemmican in one hand—and it said something, did it not, that Thomas had been too tired to notice if Little was carrying anything at all?—and what looked like a spot of chocolate in the other.

“Oh,” Thomas responded, one hand fluttering uselessly up to tuck back a strand of hair that had, for once, not escaped. The chill in his spine warred with the warmth in his cheeks as he carefully extended that same hand out, and he diligently kept it from trembling when Little handed him the food, one hand resting heavy on Thomas’ forearm before Little withdrew.

The want sparked to life in his breast again. _Cold fish_ , Thomas had once heard Hodgson erroneously say, a sentiment that had been repeated by Hornby with much less respect. Thomas had bitten his tongue and filed the information away for later, but it had hardly mattered; Hornby hadn’t made it back from the ice.

“My thanks, sir,” Thomas murmured, unexpectedly touched by the gesture and all the thought it implied. “Dare I ask how you managed this?” He tried to smile past the shakiness in his legs, in his hands, in his chest. “I can’t imagine Diggle was pleased to part with it.” _You’re a thrice-damned fool, Tom_ , he thought. The calm was harder to summon than it usually was, but summon it he did, the brittle edges of his smile softening with his posture.

It was a different sort of armour than the stiff-backed rigidity that was expected of the officers, but Thomas had long ago found that injecting the slightest bit of softness into his stance made it easier to glide unnoticed in the background. It seemed to have the opposite affect now, if Little’s resolute stare was any indication, but there was a laxness to Little’s posture too that Thomas was not used to seeing.

“Mr. Diggle parted with it willingly enough, when given a suitable explanation,” Little replied, and if that wasn’t cryptic, _well._ Thomas raised an eyebrow, and Little blinked slowly before turning his head, the soft glow from the candle illuminating his profile again.

 _Oh_ , Thomas’ soft, traitorous heart whispered. _Christ_ , other, less soft places keened. He wanted to reach out, to stop Little, to take those hands and place them _anywhere_ on his body and _revel_. His cheeks were flaming, he was sure, a deepening flush that spread across his face as he carefully unwrapped the pemmican, a dish he had once abhorred but now could not help but savour as an alternative to sour tins.

“Thank you,” he said again, more softly this time. Little’s face slackened somewhat, and he nodded before making his way back to the entrance of the cabin, casting one last surreptitious look towards the closed door to Crozier’s berth. He paused, latch half undone.

“Get some rest, Mr. Jopson,” he said. He did not look back, but there was an odd note in his voice, neither soft nor hard nor hesitant nor commanding, and long after he had left Thomas felt the weight of Little’s hand on his arm, a companion to the one that occupied the space where his lungs had once sat unencumbered.

 _You're in trouble, Mr. Jopson_ , he told himself, a death knell if there ever was one. The chocolate was bittersweet on his tongue, and he savoured every last bite.

* * *

The shame of it all was this: that Edward Little was an exemplary officer, one whom Thomas would trust to see his duty through to the absolute letter, and with everything he had in him. The shame of it all was this: that Thomas wanted him, even as he did his best to ensure no one ever knew of it.

* * *

The men’s spirits were buoyed as preparations for Fitzjames’ _Carnivàle_ got underway, and by the day of, their faces were practically aglow. They laughed more freely, joked more openly, and the collective stress that had been building belowdeck seemed to disperse as the tents began to take shape on the ice.

“It’s no bean-feast,” MacDonald said cheerily as he passed Thomas a new set of linens, “but I dare say it is much needed. Lieutenant Little let the men have first go at the trunks, and John and I have managed to cobble something together. Managed to convince Stephen on the merits of our costumes, too, which was no small feat.” He smiled at Thomas, and Thomas did his best to return it. He was not bitter that he would not be in attendance. _Carnivàle_ was a bit of respite for him, too, in a way, if only because an empty ship meant a moment’s rest: a couple of hours where he could let down his guard and simply _breathe_ without worry that someone else would come in questioning the captain’s absence. Blanky could never seem to decide whether he was angry or amused by Thomas’ dogged determination, and but then Blanky had always been a man to respect a bit of teeth, and he had been on the receiving end of Thomas’ bite enough these last two weeks to develop a healthy bit of it, if his increasingly half-hearted and frustrated attempts to gain access to Crozier’s cabin were any indication.

MacDonald seemed to hesitate for a moment, concern making the creases in his face seem deeper before he placed a gentle hand on Thomas’ shoulder.

“If you wish, I will return with the watch,” he told Thomas earnestly. “Give you a bit of a chance to unwind with the men.”

“Thank you, but I can manage,” Thomas said, though the offer coaxed a genuine smile from him. MacDonald returned it readily, as he always did, though there was a solemnity to it that Thomas wasn’t used to seeing present. The doctor’s support had been invaluable of late, his friendship even more so at a time when Thomas found he had precious few of them, but he could see the strain of the captain’s condition wearing down on him as well. MacDonald had delegated many of his everyday responsibilities to Peddie, and the assistant surgeon had taken them on with little more than a frown and a sigh, but with… _everything_ , really, all the expedition’s surgeons were weary to the bone, and Thomas was not about to cut short MacDonald’s evening.

“Give my best to Goodsir and Stanley,” he added, depositing his armful of linens into their respective cabinet before pulling out the tins of tea and lemon juice that he had brought up earlier from his pantry. A knock at the door sounded, and when Thomas, hands occupied, inclined his head, MacDonald gamely went to address it. It was a sign of how vaguely terrified of him the crew were that they had largely stopped trying to gain access to Crozier by this point, and Thomas took it as a win, even as something hardened inside him at the idea of yet another not-insubstantial barrier between him and the rest of the men.

He longed for the Antarctic. For the camaraderie and the flush of success that had buoyed the men there.

He settled for the present.

“I will pass along your good tidings,” MacDonald was saying as he unlatched the door, admitting a very snowy Lieutenant Little, who had forgone the wool coat for his slops and his lieutenant’s cap.

“Lieutenant,” Thomas greeted, straightening. He did not add the _what a surprise_ that lay poised on the tip of his tongue, but he allowed the sentiment to show on his face, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when Little reached up to pull his hat off his head.

“The men are getting ready,” Little said gruffly. “They’ve got it in their heads to bring Private Heather with them. Thought you might have a word with them, or at least see to it that Heather won’t die on the way over.”

MacDonald’s mouth thinned. “I will see what I can do. Thomas, don’t be a stranger,” MacDonald said before bidding them farewell with a tilt of his head. He was gone moments later, leaving Little to latch the door behind him.

Thomas lifted his tin of tea to his lips. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked. It was a strange sort of familiarity, the freedom to ask such a question, but he was selfish enough to revel in it. The captain had taken a turn for the better these last few days; perhaps it made him more daring.

“Merely worried about the supplies that are going towards this,” Little muttered, reaching up to unwind his scarf. His cheeks were red with the cold, and Thomas hid another smile at both that and at the slight frown that had creased Little’s brow. Wordlessly, he offered Little one of the cups, and wasn’t surprised when the lieutenant accepted it gratefully, pulling his gloves off and sighing audibly when his fingers closed around the heated tin.

“You’re not looking forward to it, then?”

Little settled into one of the chairs. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of a reference for this sort of thing. Admiralty isn’t present, though, so I suppose that makes it more bearable than anything back in England.”

Thomas’ eyes glimmered with amusement. “Bit of a lark, sir, really,” he said. “Not a trace of formality to be found, if you’re game for that sort of thing. You should give it a go. I’m sure there will still be some costumes left.”

Little blinked. Thomas, evidently employing the dictionary of reactions he’d been building to better read the man before him, indulged the unspoken question.

“Had a bit of a _Carnivàle_ of our own, sir, in the south,” Thomas explained. The tea burned its way down his throat when he took another sip, and he almost moaned at the delicious heat of it. “Ships got locked in the pack ice around New Year’s. Captains used the ice floe between the ships as a dance floor after Ross got it into his head that the men should be allowed to celebrate the hols.”

“A dance floor?”

“Oh, yes,” Thomas said, huffing, allowing the amusement to shine through. “It was quite the sight. Captain Crozier and Miss Ross opened our Antarctic ball with a quadrille. I believe you would have laughed to see the it, sir, the whole lot of us with our thick overall boots on, dancing, waltzing, slipping about.” He looked up, concealing the way Little’s scrutiny made his traitorous chest flutter yet again. “Scandalous, really. Some of the ladies fainted with cigars in their mouths, and the only cure for that is, of course, for a gentleman present to politely thrust a piece of ice down her back.” His mouth quirked into a cheeky smile as Little’s lips twitched, and then a small bark of laughter was filling the cabin. The flutter in Thomas’ chest repeated itself, and he thought he’d do a number of silly, foolish things to hear that sound again.

“And you, Mr. Jopson?” Little asked. “Were you the fainting sort, or one for the ice?”

“Are you asking if I wore a dress, Lieutenant?” Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow. He would find something to blame at a later date for the note of cheek in his own voice, but Little’s only response was to colour slightly and clear his throat, glancing away briefly before he met Thomas’ gaze with a nod. Thomas chuckled, organizing the utensils he would need to bring down to the mess.

“A lady isn’t supposed to kiss and tell, but it was a lovely maroon piece at one point, I’m sure, if you must know,” he answered at last, taking pity. Little’s fingers twitched before curling inward. Thomas hummed, considering, and added: “I’m afraid I made a poor partner, but Abernathy, our gunner, was a good sport about it, more so when he realized that I was capable of picking up my skirts for a few country romps, even if I didn’t know the first thing about the quadrille. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Lieutenant,” he said with a quiet laugh, unexpectedly delighted by the way Little’s eyes had widened and the way the blush on his face had deepened to the point where Thomas could no longer ascribe it solely to the cold.

Thomas let the silence settle comfortably between them as they both finished their tea before he rose to his feet and began putting the supplies away. Little’s colouring was back to normal, but Thomas was conscious of the way the man watched his every move. He did nothing to dissuade it. Not when part of him revelled in the attentions so.

Then, quietly, he said: “You should go, sir. No point in you lurking about _Terror_ like a great bat when there’s fun to be had, is there?”

Little sighed. “I suppose not.” He paused. “You will not be attending?” There was a flicker in those dark eyes: Little was not surprised by Thomas’ lack of attendance, but for a moment Thomas thought the shadows dancing across his face made their acting captain look almost disappointed. Thomas smiled again, despite himself, the twitch of his lips slight but no less genuine. He could not remember the last time he had truly smiled at all before Little, let alone for something so small. Laughter was an even stranger beast.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” Thomas murmured. He inclined his head in the general direction of the captain’s cabin, even as he silently dug into that evening’s rations. The lieutenant, to his credit, understood. As one of the few privy to the reality of Crozier’s situation, Thomas had not doubted, even for a moment, that he would.

“Besides,” Thomas continued, reaching up to brush aside a stray lock of hair, “as I said, I’m not much of a dancer. Fitzjames would put me to shame. I never did end up learning the quadrille. Too high-class for my ilk."

“I could teach you,” Little blurted. He stopped, as if surprised and a touch mortified by his own words, a surprise that Thomas was sure reflected in his own face, but Little did not retract the offer. He never did go back on his word, once it was spoken. Inside, he drew himself up, one hand loose at his side and the other bent at the elbow to rest in front of his chest. “Ship’s nearly empty. Plenty of places to practice. You would pick it up quickly, I suspect. Even if you are not going, it is a good skill to have.” Little seemed to be picking up more conviction with each uttered syllable, a good soldier marching down his chosen path. His eyes flickered to the side briefly, but Thomas, unmoored by the offer and the sincerity it conveyed but more so by the visceral pull of _want_ that had reawakened at the thought of Little’s hands on him in any respect, could only stand in abject shock, rendered mute as he tried to pull at the tattered remnants of his dignity.

At the very least, he managed to swallow the pitiful whimper of desire that bubbled up in his throat.

“A little Antarctic ball all our own?” Thomas teased in an effort to put the rug back under his feet from where it had been so thoroughly torn. Little’s cheeks flushed again, but he nodded.

“Doesn’t seem fair, is all, you being unable to leave when you—“ Little stopped, clearing his throat. “Just hardly seems fair.”

“Few things in life are, sir,” Thomas reminded him, both of them turning to look at Crozier’s closed berth again, where the captain had been fast asleep for hours and likely would be for hours more.

“Edward,” Little said simply. “And the offer stands.”

“The Captain—“

“Will ring the bell, as he has before,” Little interrupted. The flush deepened. “Apologies.”

Thomas considered him quietly. “The moment he calls, I will return here, and you will join the men on the ice.”

“Yes.”

And Thomas, still ever the fool, still ever slave and servant and master to _Terror’s_ dark-eyed, dark-haired first, could only accept.

* * *

Thomas had made some poor choices in his life, but _this_ , allowing Edward Little to guide him around _Terror’s_ lower deck in a spirited dance, doing their damnedest to be mindful of the displaced sails that cluttered the space, might have been one of the poorest. Stripped down to his waistcoat, sleeves partially rolled and sweating despite the chill, Thomas was sure he looked an absolute _fright_ , but there was the ghost of a laugh on Little’s face as he used their joined hands to pull Thomas out of the way of one of the seamen’s chests, and Thomas almost stumbled at the mere sight of it.

God, what had he been thinking?

“The quadrille,” Thomas panted, reaching up to brush at his hair as he tried to copy the lieutenant’s steps, a task made significantly harder by the fact that they were in boots, “might have been a bad idea. Far too much skipping. And _leaping_.”

“Looked better on the ice, then?” Little said, an unfamiliar mirth sparking in his eyes.

“And when Ross and the captain were the ones doing it,” came Thomas’ vaguely waspish reply. “Knowing what goes into it, I’m shocked we didn’t end up with a view of Ross’ petticoats before the night was done.”

Edward just chuckled. In the beginning, he had tried to explain each step, but by the fourth unfamiliar French term Thomas had placed a pleading hand on his arm and shook his head with a wry smile and an imploring, _“I’m afraid it will take more than an hour to teach me to speak French, sir.”_

Little had looked flustered, though not as much as Thomas had been listening to phrases such as _en avant en arrière à cotes_ roll off the man’s tongue. Little’s reputation as a stickler for rules—a reputation that was not without base or merit—certainly did not seem to apply to dance, and while Little wasn’t the most graceful dancer, his movements too precise and measured to be considered fluid and effortless, it was clear with every step that he knew exactly what he was on about; more, that he enjoyed doing it.

 _Lieutenant Little likes the classics_ , Gibson had shared with him early in the expedition, before proximity and rank and something dark and ugly had turned their interactions cold. _Misses music from the shore._ Looking at him now, Thomas could believe it. Could, in fact, easily picture Little in some picturesque Austin novel, grudgingly attending some society event with a blank expression and only coming alive when the music began to play. Little’s face was still flushed, hair that he had allowed to grow out during the course of their entrapment a mass of fluffy waves that framed his face, and Thomas marvelled at being allowed this glimpse into their usually stoic first.

He knew this had been a bad idea.

“Had enough, Mr. Jopson?” Little asked, and Thomas’ eyes narrowed when he realized the man was _teasing_ him.

“I could dance all night,” he said spuriously. Little smiled again, a flash of teeth and crinkled eyes, and Thomas was gone, so unbelievably _gone_ , such that when Little held out his hand again it was all he could do to keep his wits.

Little led him carefully through the next steps, the two of them circling each other as Thomas tried to copy the complicated footwork that Little patiently demonstrated. Later, hands crossed and gripping tight Thomas’ own, Little guided him slowly through some sort of promenade, but when they ran into yet another obstacle in the cramped lower deck, nearly sending a set of silverware crashing to the floor and absolutely setting Thomas to brace himself against Little’s chest to avoid a stumble, they had to pause.

“Much easier on the ice, I think,” Little said, sounding strained. _Long eyelashes_ , Thomas thought from where he was still braced against the lieutenant’s chest. _Oh, no_.

“We’ll wake the captain, crashing about.” He made no move to disentangle himself, and Little did not make to push him away. _Foolish, foolish, he will be your ruin_. His blood pumped hot in his veins, making every inch of his body feel warm where for so long there had only been cold, and every professional instinct in him screamed at him to step away, to salvage what he could, even as the animal instinct purred and basked and threatened to bare its teeth, never to let go of its prize.

The situation had become precarious, and Thomas wondered how it was that he had been addled enough to cross the threshold of reason to the point where return no longer felt possible.

“A waltz—“ Little started, broke off, tried again: “A waltz might be easier, here. If you’re amenable.” But there was something still off about Little’s voice, tight and just this side of unsteady, and his chest seemed to rise and fall quicker and quicker when, instead of refusing, Thomas only shifted and nodded his consent. For a moment Little looked lost, the strange mirth and simple assurance from earlier faltering, and he did not seem to know what to do with his hands.

 _I know how to waltz_ , Thomas didn’t say. Not the fancy types at the Admiralty balls he had never attended, but he knew enough. He wondered if Little knew that; if Little had offered anyway, despite the knowledge.

The tug of want was back, stronger than before with Little so close, such that Thomas could feel the heat of him. He exhaled, tilting his head back the slightest amount, and through his lashes he could see the way Little’s eyes snapped to his throat as they stood there, an eerie, silent tableau in the partial light of the mess.

Thomas hummed. Tilted his head to the side. Watched the way Little’s eyes followed his every movement and thought, with a traitorous little thrill of hope, _perhaps._

“You would teach me to waltz, sir?” Soft. Intimate. Edged with the barest traces of coyness—safe to risk, easy to cover should he be proven wrong. Still dangerous. Still unbearably mad of him. Thomas did it anyway, more fool he, hope and desire competing doves in his lungs, fluttering and cooing and leaving no room for air or fine sense. At some point, the atmosphere had shifted, _descended_ , or perhaps it had always been this.

 _God_.

“I would,” Little said, voice firm, as it always was, but with something wretched underneath, “if you wished it.” The hand not currently holding onto Thomas’ own remained rigid at Little’s side, but when Thomas flicked his gaze down he did not miss the way the man’s fingers curled into a fist.

Thomas’ response was to reach out carefully, until both of Little’s hands—calloused, chapped, trembling just the slightest bit, _oh_ —rested in his own. Then, holding Little’s gaze, he carefully placed them at his own waist. Fingers gripped tight Thomas’ hips, wrinkling the fabric of the waistcoat, even as Thomas’ own focus narrowed down down _down_ until his world consisted solely of Lieutenant Edward Little and the heavy weight of those hands against his body, so much better than in his imagination. Thomas wanted to keen, to purr, to do any number of things and have any number of things done _to_ him. He settled for stepping just _that_ much closer, tilting his head back the barest amount. 

“And if I did? If I _wished_ it? Alone, here, with you?”

There was that thing in Little’s face again, in the set of those cupid’s bow lips, swimming just below a surface that was not nearly as blank as most people believed, and Thomas, his own attentions sharp as a blade, made reckless by God only _knew_ , pressed himself that much closer until—

A flicker. A crack in the wall, in the foundation, in Little’s eyes, which widened just the slightest bit as they caught on his hands resting against Thomas’ waist, on Thomas’ mouth, and Thomas, never as good a man as he should have been and selfish besides, rested his hands on Little’s broad shoulders, took the sharp blade of want in his own chest, and plunged it into Little’s own without hesitation and without mercy.

“Oh, Lieutenant,” he whispered, leaning up, his mouth by Little’s ear as the man all but trembled in his arms, “I’m not that kind of girl.”

The dam broke. Little’s hands left his hips, settled against the sides of his face, and then Thomas _was_ keening, his mouth opening eagerly as his own hands gripped tight Little’s wrists. The want was an all-consuming creature now, sharp-toothed and _starved_ after so long being denied, tucked away neatly under the surface, and Thomas would have been ashamed of himself, would have been ashamed to immediately fall into the roll of the wanton, except—

“Christ,” Little said, moments before pulling back abruptly, his chest heaving and his eyes darting wildly around the deck, shock and something remarkably like _agony_ crossing his face as he panted. “Jopson, I—“

“Ssh,” Thomas said. His hands, still holding Little’s wrists, slackened their grip. He lifted one, his left, and placed it against Little’s face. “Please.”

“You—“

“Lieutenant,” Thomas whispered, lacing the words with all the command he could muster. “Edward. Kiss me.”

Little did not hesitate. He kissed like a man starved, drowned, and then left in the oppressive heat of the Indies for good measure, and it was all Thomas could do to choke off his own mewl as his back hit the support post—gently, surprisingly so. Little’s hand trembled where it was still entwined with Thomas’ own, the other faring no better against his shoulder, but he did not back down, breath leaving him in small gasps as Thomas took control of the kiss, guiding Little’s hands back to his hips.

“Jopson,” Little said, a wild look creeping into his eyes, and something sharp and possessive in Thomas’ chest _crowed_ at the sight of _Terror’s_ first lieutenant looking so undone. Thomas shifted, bringing their hips flush, letting out a breathy moan at the contact. Better than even that was the way Little’s whole body seemed to shudder, until his head was pressed into the crook of Thomas’ neck. “ _Christ_.”

“Yes,” Thomas trilled. Little did not speak of what he wanted, but that did not matter when it was written so plainly on his face, and _oh_ , how could Thomas have ever thought him cold, stoic, _anything_ other than heated and undone and flushed in the empty expanse of _Terror_ ’ _s_ mess where, on any other night, someone could walk in and see? “God, _yes_.”

Little swallowed. He looked dazed; a man given something he had not been sure he could have. Thomas wanted to give Little _everything_. He would, if Little asked, but—

“Not here.”

Little cast his eyes over Thomas’ shoulder, into the darkness. “My cabin.”

Thomas’ answer was to rest his fingers under Little’s chin and firmly guide him into another kiss, one that ended in a shudder when Little carefully tugged him away from the post and down the length of the lower deck. The lieutenants' cabins were close, _perilously_ close to the captain’s. Thomas hoped the separation provided by the officer’s mess would be enough.

 _You shouldn’t_ , a voice warned him, survival making one last, desperate attempt on his instincts, his sense. _You cannot. What if the captain wakes?_

But Little’s hand was rough and hot in his, the memory of Little’s mouth claiming his own too fresh, and Thomas, who had spent hours, days, _years_ containing that string of selfishness, who had wanted for so _long_ , was weak in the wake of him.

Tucked aport, Little’s cabin was a luxury compared to Thomas’ own accommodations—if a hammock could be called such. Any other day Thomas might have taken in the books that littered the shelves above the bed place, old classics screaming their tales on lovingly-bound pages, glimpses into who Edward Little was beyond the ice and the burden of a command thrust so suddenly upon him. There was no time for that now, no time for much of anything beyond the hasty closing of a door before Thomas was pulling Edward to him again, smiling and sighing against the curve of that lovely mouth, eyes fluttering shut as he hid a purr of his own when he felt Edward’s hands flounder for a moment, unsure of where to rest.

He thought of the moments in the captain’s cabin again, hints and prompts sent over the captain’s head, received and followed to the letter. A man who could command, and do so easily when the need arose, but who still took direction.

Who still _liked_ to take direction.

Thomas’ eyes sharpened. In reply, Edward’s pupil’s dilated.

The fingers of his left hand resting lightly against Edward’s chest, Thomas brushed the knuckles of his right against Edward’s cheek, leaned in and, against the shell of Edward’s ear, whispered:

_“Touch me.”_

A wounded sound punched its way out of Edward’s chest, and he lowered his head to kiss Thomas again, his hands once again finding Thomas’ waist after some gentle coaxing, even as Thomas’ own went to the front of Edward’s navy waistcoat, fingers deftly working the buttons until he could push the garment from Edward’s shoulders. The shirt was quick to follow, and almost immediately Thomas’ hands found that heated skin, his own breath catching as they skimmed over the dips of the lieutenant’s throat and then _down_ , pressing down against Edward’s chest and revelling in the texture of the of hair under his palm.

Hands cupped Thomas’ face, and he turned his head to scrape his teeth gently against one calloused palm. Edward made another sound, kissed him _again_ , like he couldn’t get enough, and then Thomas was gently steering them towards the bed place, slipping between Edward’s legs as he pushed the man into a sitting position on the bed.

Edward’s hands found his hips again and Thomas smiled, a small, slow thing. He said nothing when Edward’s hands slid up his still-clothed torso, did nothing but sway placidly when those fingers carefully undid the buttons of Thomas’ vest and shirt, but he could not hold back the whimper when, instead of immediately removing the clothing, Edward simply leaned forward, pressing his mouth against the Thomas’ stomach, left bare and exposed by his open shirt. Hands slipped around to Thomas’ back, pulling him close, and all Thomas could do was grip tight Edward’s hair, just as soft as it had been in his fantasies.

It was gentle, _unbearably_ so, the sort of thing reserved for lovers, for people who _cared_ , for people who had _time,_ safety, stability, and Thomas was clenching his jaw before he could stop himself, unwilling to explore that possibility just yet. Instead, he shrugged out of the shirt, fumbled, uncharacteristically, with everything else, and when Edward made to speak, to open his mouth, Thomas merely pressed a finger against those parted lips.

 _“_ Up, lieutenant,” and then Edward _was_ , crowding into Thomas’ space, hands at Thomas’ arms, his shoulders, his _chest,_ just this side of shaky. The lieutenant was quiet, characteristically so, but Thomas still had to lean forward to swallow the rumbled groan that sounded when Thomas took Edward in hand, muffling his own in that same kiss when Edward’s rough hands found him as well.

“Do you have—“

“Afraid not,” Edward said through gritted teeth as he slipped back onto the bed. Thomas might have smiled if he weren’t too busy just trying to remember how his hands worked, and had his own cheeks not already been flushed pink he might have blushed as he crawled atop Edward, a wanton if there ever was one as he spread his legs and settled himself, but desperation and lust and something so much more dangerous than both of those things pushed all thoughts of shame from his mind until the only thing that mattered was the way Edward watched him with those dark, dark eyes, like Thomas was something precious and important, to be cared for.

It scraped at something in him, peeling off layers that he had worn so long he had forgotten what it was like to not carry them always, and he could not help the way his eyes fluttered shut when Edward lifted a hand to brush against his cheek; could not help the way he leaned in, a maiden in the throes of spring’s first heat.

“Please,” Thomas whispered, one of the few words he found himself still capable of voicing. “Please,” he whispered again, this time against the palm of Little’s hand as he took it into his own and scraped his teeth gently against the roughened skin there.

 _Whatever you want_ , Little’s dark eyes seemed to say, and so Thomas’ shuddered, his focus sharpening, narrowing down until all that remained was the man between his thighs and the heat between them.

“Ruin me.”

There was no time for what he truly wanted, the animal _need_ he felt to take the lieutenant as deep and as Thomas’ body could bear, but there was time enough for this, _they could have this_ , and Thomas waisted no time in seizing it, in pouring everything he had into this moment of respite as Edward lifted himself and crushed their mouths together, pulling Thomas close as Thomas’ spit-slick hand slithered between their bodies, gripping them both. He wished he could use his mouth, wished there was room in the berth for anything else, but what he had, the feeling of Edward’s hand gently closing over his as he worked them both, _oh_ —

Thomas’ hips jerked, and he muffled a moan by biting into his own fist, body curving back and then forward as Edward’s knees slid up, pushing him closer, a brace against his lower back. It was too little, it was too much, it was everything and _nothing_ , and when Edward lifted himself up again, shifted so that his back was pressed against the wall, the two of them cocooned on the small bed, Thomas neatly contained and mewling in the lieutenant’s lap, it was all he could do to hold onto even the slightest bit of composure.

“Tom,” Edward grunted, his grip tightening as Thomas gave another jerk of his hips, the friction a delicious thing that made his blood sing. He could feel every line on the lieutenant’s palm where it touched him, and he braced his free hand on wall by Edward’s head to keep himself steady—a losing battle when Edward’s response was to slip his other hand down Thomas’ back, nearly between his legs, brushing wickedly against him and oh how Thomas _yearned,_ but they couldn’t.

“I want to hear,” Edward said, and Thomas was hopelessly lost to those dark eyes, fevered and focused and looking at him as though he were still that cherished thing. “Tom, I want to hear. I want it. I want everything.”

“You—“ Thomas panted, but he choked it off when Edward twisted his wrist, growing bolder with each muffled whimper, with each keen and mewl. _Danger_ , his mind whispered again, but the warning was lost to the haze, to the feeling of Edward Little’s hands on him at _last_ , leaving searing lines of heat against sweat-slicked skin. He threw his head back, felt blunted nails drag down the front of his chest, felt cupid’s bow lips at his neck, teeth at his shoulder, sinking into the skin there with a groan as Thomas keened _again_ , soft and high, face flushed and red and eyes starting to turn glassy even as Edward’s became more focused, more intent: command found, command lost, control taken.

“Ple—“ Thomas started to say, only to break off with a helpless moan that Edward surged up and swallowed. “ _God_ —“

“Yes,” Edward replied. “I’ve got you, Tom. _Christ_ , yes.”

Thomas had no more words. His thoughts were becoming more and more disjointed, lost to the sensation of Edward’s mouth at his neck, as desperate as he, as animal as he. _Close_ , he thought wildly, _close, close, close—_ and he looked down, saw those dark eyes peering up at him through lashes that brushed high cheekbones, _ah—_

And then he let out one final cry, head tipped back, barely aware of the answering teeth that sank into his skin and the sudden heat against his belly as he spilled between them both, carried through it by steady— _shaky_ —hands and unintelligible murmurs as that mouth sought his own. He gave into it, gave _back_ , consuming and consumed as Edward kissed him, still hungry, still desperate, still that drowning man trying to prolong the last few mouthfuls of water as they shuddered and came down together, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat.

Thomas thought of nothing for those next few moments; was only vaguely aware of Little shifting, of fabric wiping away the mess of their bellies before Edward was turning, guiding them carefully on the narrow bed until they were settled back, Thomas pillowed against Edward’s chest as Edward’s arms wound around him.

He wanted nothing more than to stay, to bask in the afterglow, his body still trembling as Little absently rubbed soothing circles against his bare flank. It wasn’t possible. Thomas knew it, Little knew it, but that didn’t stop Thomas from shuddering and curling closer, his eyes slipping shut as he allowed himself to pretend. Little’s hand dragged up his back, and Thomas felt lips press into his hair. He ached already with the force of the want that still made its home in his core.

 _Just a moment more_.

_Just a bit of a rest._

His eyes fluttered closed, ears filled with the creaking of the ship in the ice and the sound of Little’s chest rising and falling under his ear, of the beat of Little’s heart beneath his skin. He laid one hand against that selfsame chest, fingers curling the slightest amount, and he felt Little’s hand settle once again over his own.

“The captain,” Thomas eventually whispered, and he felt Little’s answer projected through skin, accepted through touch.

“Yes,” was all Little said. _You’re an unforgivable weakness_ , Thomas thought of him. His eyes closed again. Then, turning his head, he pressed one last kiss against Little’s chest before rising. His clothes were easy enough to find, even if his legs and hands shook when he slipped them back on. His greatcoat lay somewhere in the mess where he’d abandoned it hours before, and he could already feel the arctic chill seeping into his bones. He wanted to crawl back into the bed place, to curl back up against Little’s warm body. Instead, he finished the last of the buttons, straightened his waistcoat, and made to leave, but not before a hand found his own, pulling him back for one more kiss; a final silly indulgence.

“Enjoy the ice, Lieutenant Little,” Thomas whispered when they parted. “I will see you on the morrow.”

Little’s mouth twitched, countenance slowly, reluctantly closing off as they remembered who and where they were, and he nodded. Thomas smiled, leaning down to press one last kiss against Little’s forehead. Then he turned and left, vanishing into the gloom.

* * *

He’d a tray of food in his hands when he walked back into Crozier’s cabin mere moments later, hair pushed back into place and steps as even as he could make them, but the restoration of his outward facade did not mean his heart did not plummet when he saw Crozier out of his berth.

“I didn’t hear the bell, sir,” he said, quickly placing the tray aside, but despite Crozier’s current occupation, and despite the lines of exhaustion written into the captain’s skin, there was nothing but warmth in Crozier’s eyes as he spoke; a spark of life that had been too long gone as he inquired about their silent ship. Thomas swallowed. Explained, as best he could, even as he thought of Little walking that half-mile in the cold to join the men; even as part of him yearned to walk the ice with him. With the captain on the mend and the memory of Little pressed tight against him he felt raw again, flayed beyond mere bones and _shaky_ , shakier than he had felt in a long time, sure it showed on his face as he opened his mouth, closed it. “It’s Captain Fitzjames’ _Carnivale_. We’ve just a single watch tonight.” _All night_ , _until the sunrise, in a place where the rules can be bent and forgotten, however briefly._ He was sure the longing showed in his voice, in the set of his shoulders, despite his best efforts.

Crozier inclined his head.

“See if you can borrow a shotgun off somebody on watch. I want to see it.”

 _Foolish_ , Thomas thought as he imagined the weight of a different pair of eyes watching him in Fitzjames’ constructed realm, where the ice could be once again dismissed in place of desired heat. He felt the ghost of Little’s hands on his body, and the ache in his shoulder where teeth had broken skin. _Foolish. Dangerous_. He craved it already, desire burning hot in his veins even as he pulled enough of his wits about him to listen to the captain’s orders, to obey them as he always had, as he always would. Then he set out to find the skeleton watch, to borrow a weapon as familiar to him as the creature of want in his chest was becoming.

 _Until the sunrise_ , he’d told the captain, and he repeated that as he slung the shotgun over his shoulder and made his way across the deck, the cold doing nothing against the warmth that ruddied his cheeks. He thought of laughter in the hold, of the lieutenant’s hand in his, of a new dance on the ice and the unmistakable softness in Little’s dark eyes, the way he’d touched Thomas like he was something worth keeping. Hope, a nebulous thing, bloomed in his chest, warring with caution and logic and all the bloody good sense he’d spent his life building up. 

“See you on the morrow, sir,” he murmured, gazing across the ice, where the glow of the tents heralded the night ahead and the new day to come. Then he descended back into the belly of the beast, trusting that the fire in his veins would sustain him until the sun rose once again.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Carnivàle burns down :c Tragic.
> 
> This fic has graphics! [**View them here**](https://empirics.tumblr.com/post/631361946945552384/oh-lieutenant-thomas-whispered-leaning-up) on my [tumblr](https://empirics.tumblr.com/) 🖤 As well, comments and kudos are cherished beyond measure.
> 
>  **SELECT NOTES**  
>  \- Thomas Abernathy was the gunner on the Ross Antarctic expedition.  
> \- Thomas’ description of the Antarctic Ball taken from a contemporary description by John Edward Davis: “[…] Captain Crozier and Miss Ross opened the ball with a quadrille […] Ices and refreshments were handed round […] You would have laughed to see the whole of us, with thick overall boots on, dancing, waltzing and slipping about […] Ladies fainting with cigars in their mouths—to cure which the gentlemen would politely thrust a piece of ice down her back […] a “lady” burnt the back of my hand with a cigar.” You can read more here: https://polar-reading.mysticseaport.org/item/a050/  
> \- Technically speaking the show made a wee bit of a mistake by portraying MacDonald as the surgeon aboard Terror, as John Peddie was actually the surgeon while MacDonald was the assistant surgeon, but I love Charles Edwards so I’m running with it and we’re just keeping with the show's canon that Peddie is the assistant. Sorry not sorry.  
> \- They don’t dance in the orlop because the locomotive engine displaced the sails, which were stored in the middle of the men’s sleeping quarters on _Terror's_ lower deck instead. Makes things a bit cramped. Apparently the film crew thought much the same.  
> \- I did, actually, research the quadrille, and was promptly catapulted back into my ballet days. Then I decided I wouldn't torture you all with graphic descriptions of a _deux jettés à cotes_.  
> \- I looked at low-quality floor plans of _Terror's_ lower deck to place Edward's cabin so you don't have to, but [here it is anyway](http://buildingterror.blogspot.com/2014/09/a-view-from-hms-terrors-lower-deck_76.html) if you want to take a look.


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